


The Ones We Love (Can Make Us Feel So Small)

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [22]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 13:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: The lastpastelazoDiego got was from his cousins, when he turned 15, back in Mexico. He tries not to think about it too much because his 16th birthday was anything but celebratory, and he hasn't really gone out of his way to celebrate hiscumplesince then.





	The Ones We Love (Can Make Us Feel So Small)

**Author's Note:**

> A pretty personal (and painful) fic for me. I've been on both sides of interactions like the one in this fic.
> 
> Title comes from the song 'Tightrope' by The Score. Feedback is love. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

The last _pastelazo_ Diego got was from his cousins, when he turned 15, back in Mexico. He tries not to think about it too much because his 16th birthday was anything but celebratory, and he hasn't really gone out of his way to celebrate his _cumple_ since then.

Andres and Hector conspire against him though—the Friday he turns 26, a couple hours after they all get off work, Andres sends him a text, telling him to stay put (“and put on something nice—but not too nice”). They show up half an hour later with Raul and Javier and a few other guys from work, hauling twelve-packs of Modelo and a gigantic cake complete with a yellow-and-blue frosting rendition of the Club América crest. 

“You have no idea how much it hurt me to ask them to put that on there,” Hector, a lifelong Pumas fan, tells him.

Diego hopes someone took a video of the actual _pastelazo_ itself so he has proof of who actually shoved his face in the cake and can plot his revenge accordingly. The frosting is so thick that when he comes back up he can barely open his eyes or breathe through his nose. He clears some of it away with his hands but it clings stubbornly to his fingers. He tries to throw some of it at Andres and Hector, who skitter away, laughing. When Javier gets too close, trying to smear some more cake in his hair, Diego manages to slap a handful of frosting in his face. 

The guys are still sniping back and forth at each other in his living room as Diego retreats down the hall to the bathroom to clean up. Once there, though, he realizes the Kleenex he's using may not really cut it, because all he's succeeding in doing with it is smearing frosting onto other parts of his face.

Before he can do more than throw away the wadded up Kleenex in his hand, someone knocks on the half-closed bathroom door and sticks their head in. 

“Thought you might need these,” Hector says, holding up a paper towel roll. Diego wonders briefly what it says that Hector knew exactly where in his kitchen to find extra paper towels. He holds out a hand, makes a beckoning motion with his fingers. Hector half-smiles and steps into the bathroom.

“You're a mess,” he says, clearly amused, as he unrolls a few towels and tears them off.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Diego grumbles, wiping futilely at his face with a frosting-covered hand. Hector smirks and hands over the wad of paper towels. Diego takes them, wipes his hands off first, then starts on his face. When he runs out of clean towel, Hector hands over another handful without having to be asked. 

“Shut up,” Diego tells him preemptively, because he's still grinning, obviously enjoying Diego's misery. Diego glances in the mirror—he's still a mess, as Hector put it. He takes another proffered bunch of paper towels, and when he starts wiping frosting out of his eyelashes, Hector laughs out loud. 

“C'mere,” he says before Diego can insult him in response. He wets a couple of the towels in the sink, reaches up and hovers them over Diego's face. 

“Close your eyes,” he amends, feigning exasperation. Diego obeys, and Hector swipes at his eyelids with the towels, careful but not hesitant.

“ _No te muevas_ ,” Hector says a second or two later. Diego feels fingers at his jaw, touching more than holding, and then Hector's dabbing the towel at the corners of his eyes with practiced ease. It reminds Diego that this is the kind of thing Hector does at home, all the time, with his daughter and his nieces and his nephews. It warms him and makes him feel suddenly, inexorably lonely at the same time. 

When he's done, Hector steps back, hands over a dry towel. Diego turns toward the mirror—his face is clean, no more garish yellow and blue frosting smeared across his skin. He reaches up and wipes a few globs out of his hair, crumples up the towel and tosses it in the trash can. He leans down to wash his hands, and when he looks back up into the mirror, Hector's watching him, no longer smiling. Diego turns around, leans back against the sink and raises his eyebrows, a wordless query.

Hector shrugs, sets the paper towel roll down. 

“I'm sorry _que no puedes festejar con tu familia_ ,” he says, switching seamlessly from English to Spanish. Diego has always envied him that ability. 

“Yeah,” he replies, not quite meeting Hector's eyes. Hector has no way of knowing that his words are true for reasons other than an international border and a fateful, frantic swim across the Rio Grande a decade ago to the day; despite all the other things they've shared in eight years of being friends, this is something that Diego still keeps to himself.

For one, reckless moment, he considers telling Hector, considers laying out that paper-thin, fragile, yet oh-so-important piece of himself that he's only just started to piece back together ten years after his father shattered it with fists and epithets and unmitigated threats not to set foot in the house again unless and until he decided to be a real man instead of a faggot.

But just as quickly as the thought enters his mind, he shoves it away. He knows exactly what it's like to lose everything because the truth is too much to handle, even for the people who love (loved?) him; he can't—won't—risk that again.

Hector looks for a second like he's going to say something else, but then seems to decide against it.

“Back to the party?” he asks instead. 

“Yeah,” Diego says, giving what he hopes is an easy grin.

His secret is safe, but for some reason he doesn't feel relieved.

**Author's Note:**

> Club América and Pumas: Mexican football clubs – Diego Reyes came up through América's youth system, and Hector Moreno came up through Pumas' youth system.  
>  _pastelazo_ : literally, pieface, i.e. the Mexican tradition of shoving the birthday boy or girl's face into a cake  
>  _cumple_ : short for _cumpleaños_ , birthday  
>  _No te muevas_ : don't move, hold still  
> I'm sorry _que no puedes festejar con tu familia_ : I'm sorry you can't celebrate with your family


End file.
